


In Time

by rainbowjaeger



Series: Gallyafest [8]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Gen, POV Female Character, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 11:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9070153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowjaeger/pseuds/rainbowjaeger
Summary: She felt her face drain of any color as her stomach dropped harder than she’d always hoped the Berlin Wall would. The previous night, she’d noticed his above-average height, but now the man himself stood right in front of her (perfect posture with no hunch to be seen, making him look not dissimilar to a skyscraper, especially compared to Gaby), she really had to strain her neck to look up at him. It only made matters worse.Worried she’d burst into a mixture of tears and absolute rage at the thought of him dragging her back behind the wall, she turned back to Napoleon. “Why did he call me his woman?”Or: The movie and moments inbetween through the eyes of a fiery 5'4" woman.





	1. Property

**Author's Note:**

> This has been done to death, yes, I'm aware. I still want to take a crack at it. 
> 
> As we all know, their relationship in the movie was a bit rushed. Hell, they took about 4 days to turn into bumbling idiots around each other. I'm sure it wasn't just love at first sight, though, so I want to write about the progress that I think is in the inbetween moments that the movie didn't show. Or, at least, I wanna write slow burn. Whatever.

When he told Gaby to “step on it”, her blood boiled. She wanted to tell this spoiled American that the gas was pressed down all the way and that cars in East-Berlin simply didn’t go that fast and that he maybe should take some more shots. But she kept her mouth shut and applied some more pressure on her foot, willing the little Wartbug to go faster, because it had just to. If she didn’t want to end up in Soviet hands, beaten, killed and dumped in Siberia (not necessarily in that order) for treason, at least.

They had sent their most intimidating agent to come and get her, she was sure of it. Gaby had only seen their assailant for a second before he retreated back into the shadows, hat pulled over his eyes, but to her, he looked about three meters tall and wide with every intent to kill her and her newfound partner who was currently drawing some lines on a map.

“Take a left and an immediate right,” he spoke up from the backseat, seemingly satisfied with his navigation. She threw the car around, not bothering to look into the rearview mirror to check if the American spy had been slung to the other side of the vehicle.

They ended up at a stoplight. The roads were completely desolate - as per usual in East-Berlin this late – but she still stopped. Ignoring the red stoplight would be too suspicious, right? But they were already suspects, or they wouldn’t be tailed.

The questions she was asked barely registered. _Is he looking? Does he have one hand on the steering wheel?_ She hummed twice. She wasn’t sure why he was asking her, but she had little time to think at all as she heard two shots from behind her, and pressed in the gas pedal as hard as she could. Her heart was racing, not only from her partner-in-crime shooting someone in cold blood, but also because the stare-down with the KGB-agent would be etched into her memory forever. He’d seen her, he knew what she looked like. There was no doubt in his eyes – only resolve, an order to fulfill. An order to capture, dead or alive. Even though the adrenaline was keeping her warm, a chill went down her spine.

She let the American out of the car and drove around the block like he’d told her. She took a quick look at the grey buildings passing by. If all went well, she wouldn’t have to see them ever again. Hope took over suppressed panic and anxiety for a second, and she arrived at the CIA-agent’s feet, nearly hitting him with her car in the process. A shrug is all she granted him before they’re off again.

When she saw a tall figure running behind their car, her night officially went from bad to disastrous.

“You can’t be serious,” the American (what was his name again? Gaby didn’t quite catch it, but it sounded very fake and sculpted, not unlike the man himself) didn’t bother to hide his amusement as the KGB-agent took a hold of the hood of the car.

“He’s trying to stop the car,” He informed her (Solo! That was it. Might as well have named him Badboy, that would’ve sounded just as ridiculous), still looking out the back window.

“Why don’t you take a shot at him?” Gaby offered, her frustration obviously showing. She wasn’t trying to mask it anymore, this was getting ridiculous. A Russian agent was trying to stop a car with his bare hands. And he was succeeding.

Solo refused, and Gaby was on the verge of kicking him out of the car and letting him sort it out himself, mission and father and freedom be damned, when the hood popped off the car and was being flung at them like a disc.

Gaby wasn’t sure if she was awake. As if things couldn’t get any more surreal, she’d just driven her car stuck between two walls right in front of the Berlin Wall. The entire police force would probably be after her now.

She kept catching glimpses of the agent that was still after them, and every time the knot in her stomach tightened. The west was so close now, she didn’t want to give it up.

When she was safely in the back of the truck with Solo and his partner, she realized she was actually in West-Berlin. Solo severed the cord of their impromptu zip-line and Gaby watched the KGB-agent, hanging on for dear life, drop into the minefield. She didn’t hear a mine go off, but figured he wouldn’t get out of there. She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

Gaby Teller was no longer property of East-Berlin.


	2. Meeting

Her first impression of the West-Berlin boutique was old and overly posh, but the glass of champagne shoved into her hand changed her opinion.

Down one glass of fancy champagne and two outfits she absolutely hated, Solo told her about the plan.

“The Russians?” she echoed him. _Just when I thought I’d escaped communism…_

For her own amusement, she started wondering what the Russian would look like. Her bets were on an exaggerated scowl, a thick fur coat and a slight hunch.

The presence, and a moment later, a voice matching it, behind her startled her right out of her imagination.

“My woman would never wear this.”

While her first reaction was to agree with him, yes, how could anyone approve of this outfit that looked too old-fashioned for even her grandmother, but her throat restricted as soon as she turned around and stared right into the face she came to fear just the evening before.

She felt her face drain of any color as her stomach dropped harder than she’d always hoped the Berlin Wall would. The previous night, she’d noticed his above-average height, but now the man himself stood right in front of her (perfect posture with no hunch to be seen, making him look not dissimilar to a skyscraper, especially compared to Gaby), she really had to strain her neck to look up at him. It only made matters worse.

Worried she’d burst into a mixture of tears and absolute rage at the thought of him dragging her back behind the wall, she turned back to Napoleon. “Why did he call me his woman?”

He managed to look somewhat apologetic. She barely waited for his response before exiting the shop, not bothering to worry about changing out of her outfit. The first step out of the store was already filled with regret. How would she explain to Waverly that she bailed less than twenty-four hours in? She’d been waiting for two years, would he shove her in the first cab back to East-Berlin now? She told herself he wouldn’t, he was too nice for that. But, she reminded herself, he was MI6 before he was a caring father-figure. He could’ve thrown around all his British charm when he needed her and now that she was calling it quits, he could just as easily drop the act.

She still stormed out of the shop, even if it was solely because she couldn’t ruin her cover this early in, even if she didn’t want to do it anymore.

Napoleon chased her soon enough and stopped her just meters from the shop. She looked inside and saw that the Russian approached the woman behind the counter, gesturing towards a wall full of dresses that didn’t look like anything she’d ever worn before.

Solo called her name twice. He assured her that it was perfectly safe and that she didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to. She didn’t believe it one bit. Even Waverly had told her: should it come down to it, the mission goes above everything else.

But she obliged, and re-entered the store with a freshly spoiled mood.

 

* * *

 

Why had Solo left them alone? She’d been repeating the question in her head the entire flight.

To make sure their covers wouldn’t be blown immediately after entering the airport in Rome, they went with a domestic flight, though in business class. The extra leg room they got, which Illya certainly needed (she’d learnt his name in the couple of hours of mostly silence from his side and quiet, seething rage from Gaby’s), didn’t make up for the fact that she was already stuck with him and would be for the following couple of days. Her fear for him hadn’t completely subsided yet, but annoyance had replaced it for the most part. He barely uttered more than a few words at a time, kept rejecting her clothing picks, and didn’t really look at her at all. On top of that, she didn’t think she’d seen him show any expression so far. No happiness, nor anger, nor sadness or even boredom – just a whole lot of nothing; neutral, icy and unbearably impersonal.

She’d broken their stalemate of silence earlier at the airport.

“So all of a sudden you don’t want to put me behind a wall anymore?” she’d asked, raising her eyebrows in an arrogant expression.

He’d kept his eyes on the little book he was reading. She couldn’t make out the title, it was in Cyrillic.

“I have nothing against you personally, Miss Teller. I simply did what the mission asked of me.” How terribly diplomatic.

“So if the mission demands of you to kill me, you would do it without hesitation?” She’d said the words before she could think twice about them. If she had given it thought before senselessly letting her mouth run, she was sure the words would’ve gotten stuck in her throat. She’d been afraid of his answer.

“It will not come to that.”

“So that’s practically a yes. That’s comforting.” She’d slumped back in the hard airport seat, but turned her head back to him when she’d heard him close his book with a soft _thud_.

He’d looked around once, making sure nobody was around to hear their conversation, which was undoubtedly confidential.

“I do not think you realize how important you are, Miss Teller. Your function here is to track your father, so we can prevent nuclear destruction of the world. If we fail - and “we” includes you – then it does not matter if you go back behind Iron Curtain or not, because there will not be a curtain. Or any people in world left, for that matter.” He’d finally looked at her. “Besides, I am not mere lapdog of KGB. Even though I am a spy and must follow orders, I have a will of my own. Please realize that and do not worry about your safety around me.”

Gaby had been speechless. This was by far the most he’d even spoken in the half day she’d known him, and he was already warning her about the end of the world if she failed and telling her not to worry in the same breath.

Nevertheless, it did comfort her a bit. At the very least, dragging her back into Soviet territory wasn’t his priority.

Because the monotone noise of the airplane would surely drive her crazy if she had to listen to it for once second more, she spoke up again.

“What are you reading?” She kept her voice down despite the fair amount of chatter around them.

He looked up at her from his still cramped space despite having the aisle seat. She figured planes must be, though an ordinary occurrence in his life as an international spy, absolute hell for a man of his stature.

He hesitated with his answer for a second, as if he was genuinely surprised by her question, by her actual interest in him. “Tolstoy. A book named War and Peace.”

“Hm,” she huffed. “Fitting.”


	3. Acting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna keep uploading these daily until I run out, which is probably in a couple of days if I don't keep writing ahead. We'll see.

On their way into the hotel, he offered her his arm without comment. She linked hers through it and was surprised by the effortlessness of it, considering both of their heights.

They silently agreed on going out instead of going to the hotel room, partly because Illya had spotted the two men in the lobby but mostly because Gaby wasn’t entirely comfortable with the feeling of domesticity of a shared hotel room.

Again, Gaby initiated the conversation. “So why don’t you tell me a bit about the steps?” she asked, looking for a way to trip him up. She wondered if he’d done his research on the Roman architecture, but considering his preparedness he probably had.

He went off on a monologue about how the Spanish Steps were actually built by Russians, and halfway through the second sentence, Gaby had already tuned out. She was still enchanted by the charm of the city. The evenings were warm, but not so much as to make her sweat in her pearly white evening dress and jacket. The people were all well-dressed and tanned, and looked to have a much brighter outlook on life than the people of East-Berlin. Gaby wondered if she stood out, but hoped her naturally tan complexion (compared to other Germans, not to the golden-brown Italians) helped her blend in a bit.

She hopped atop the elevated stone surrounding the beautiful fountain and drank a handful of the water. She looked up to see Illya’s reaction, but he managed to hide his disgust well.

Something about his monologue stood out to her. The Russian architect had supposedly built one step for each year of his mother’s life. She remembered reading about the steps in the airplane; that couldn’t be right.

“Huh,” she mused, “so she died at one hundred thirty-five?”

He waited a second too long before answering. Gaby felt victorious, even if it was petty of her. He was being just as childish with his Russian fairy tales.

“No,” he corrected her in a tone she could only describe as incredibly patronizing, “she died at one hundred, he was thirty-five. So, one hundred thirty-five steps.”

She could’ve left it at that. She should’ve left it at that. But he made it so easy.

“So she gave birth at the age of sixty-five?” She felt a smile creeping up her cheeks, but tried to stay serious.

“No,” he went, at a loss for words.

To Gaby’s dismay, he was saved by Napoleon driving up on a Vespa. She wondered where he’d got it, but she was also sure she didn’t need the answer.

They were being followed, Solo informed them. Illya knew, but Gaby hadn’t noticed a thing. She cursed herself for not paying attention. She was supposed to be Waverly’s eyes and ears in this.

Gaby didn’t completely register the exchange between the two, figuring it was just childish banter, and simply agreed with Solo’s suggestion of letting them be robbed as to gain Rudi’s trust. After all, they weren’t the most conventional pair, anyone with common sense would question their actual motivations.

“This is not the Russian way,” Illya spat as he dragged Gaby away, and she physically had to restrain herself from laughing. What a joke. This mission was a joke, and so were her partners.

Despite her agreement with the plan, Gaby couldn’t help but feel nervous at the prospect of getting robbed. What if Illya couldn’t control his temper, or one of the robbers had a gun? What if they’d touch her? She’d fight back, of course, but the men probably had about a hundred kilos on her and possibly a weapon.

They walked past he shady men she didn’t even recall seeing in the lobby (damn it all) without a word and hoped they’d let them go.

“Nice shoes,” one commented with a heavy Italian accent. “Perhaps you give them to me?”

“No thank you,” Illya deflected politely, “your feet look a little small.” The man was probably a head shorter than him.

He hopped off from the rock he was perched on top of. “Then, give me some money for coffee.”

Gaby was still determined to let this happen as smoothly as possible. “Dearest, give this man something for coffee.” Her stomach turned at the obviously forced pet name.

Illya handed him a bill for ten thousand lire, and the man took it, quickly followed by his wallet.

“Enjoy your coffee,” Illya said and turned around to walk.

Gaby was relieved. Surely, they’d passed the test, right? Maybe Illya had let them off too easily. Even a normal man his size wouldn’t let himself get robbed this easily.

“You should give me the watch, too,” the man continued. Illya froze.

“Darling, give him the watch,” Gaby ordered, catching sight of the knife the man had produced from his pocket.

“And the ring,” the other one spoke up. Demonstratively, Gaby removed the fake engagement ring from her finger and handed it to the man with the knife.

“Illya,” she said, her voice strained, “give him the watch.” At this point, she was more afraid of the knife and any other hidden weapons than the risk of being found out.

One slap on Illya’s cheek by one of the goons, and then another. He was eerily still, his expression steeled and somehow not really…. _there_.

He took off his watch and quickly handed it over to the man. As a parting gift, one of them spat in Illya’s face.

A swift punch. One man down, the other, before kneeling beside him, pulled out a gun. Gaby didn’t fully register what had just happened, but Illya had just punched one of them and the man was gasping for air.

Torn between asking what he’d done to him and scolding him for potentially ruining their mission, she settled for making sure Illya didn’t do any more damage to any of the men or, God forbid, her.

She held his fists as tightly as she could. They were balled up and trembling. He still wasn’t responding even though the men were scrambling on their feet and away. Gaby would’ve been terrified if she didn’t feel vaguely responsible for him being in this state. After all, she didn’t know where he’d gotten the ring from, nor the watch.

As if to make matters worse, Solo appeared, looking as smug as ever. She wanted to tell him to go away, to mind his own business because he hadn’t just gotten robbed.

Gaby fell back, letting them sort it out again. It turned out that the watch had been his father’s. Now she really felt guilty. Maybe it was because she’d downed a few drinks back in the airplane, or because she was still mildly in shock, or maybe she was just tired of the long day. Whatever the cause was, guilt turned into anger, and anger had to be directed at someone.

“You two are supposed to protect me, so why am I playing mother?” she interfered with their fight. She really did sound like a mother and she felt like one too, with how these two were acting. “Either you two start taking this seriously, or I’m out.” Before she could say anything she would regret, she turned around and decided she could find her way back to the hotel by herself. If they wanted to fight, fine, but not around her. She had better things to do, like see if the hotel had provided their suite a minibar. God knows she needed it now.

But Illya caught up with her before she could even reach the end of the walk around the ruins. Damn his long legs, and her high heels, and the wobbly stones beneath her feet.

“I’m not quitting, just so you know,” Gaby said before he could even speak up. “ _Do_ know I’m sick of you two fighting. Aren’t you supposed to be the world’s best spies?”

He had the dignity to look somewhat embarrassed, at least. “I figured you would not just quit. You are strong, dependable. Still, I want to apologize. I should not have reacted the way I did.”

The apology sounded forced, but Gaby figured it was the accent and his limited grasp of the English language. It had its charm, she supposed.

“I didn’t know the watch was your father’s,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry. I hope the ring wasn’t too valuable. I just gave it away.” Her shame wasn’t feigned – she actually felt terrible for what she’d ordered him to do.

“Ring wasn’t of value, is okay,” he said, not commenting on the part about the watch. A touchy subject, she knew now. She’d remember not to bring it up anymore. “Do not worry too much about it. I will not fight with Solo anymore either. He is just-“ his expression became pensive, as if searching for the right word. “very American.”

Gaby laughed at how matter-of-factly he’d said it, like it was logical and anybody would agree with him. He looked surprised to see her laugh, but appreciated nonetheless. He offered her his arm again, and she took it, finishing their walk to the hotel in comfortable silence.


	4. Dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's officially the 31st here, and I'm not sure if I'll upload tomorrow, so therefore an early "happy new year!"
> 
> Also I didn't realize my title chapters are all gerunds and I'm basically copying that from user JackOfSomeTrades. Oops! Hope you don't mind.

Gaby wasn’t sure if it was the sound of her speaking German that had him back to his usual, stoic self, but she was sure she didn’t like it. She thought she’d finally pried him open, even just a little bit, and make him at least bearable to be around.

The vodka was the strongest liquor she could find in the hotel room. She poured two glasses, downed the liquid in one, and offered the other to Illya. He barely looked up from his game of chess to tell her “no, thank you”.

This scene was completely off. She was currently working with a Russian KGB agent, who was at the moment entirely enveloped in a game of chess against himself, and who didn’t drink – at least not vodka.

She didn’t worry about it for long, though, as the second glass of vodka burned all the way down her throat and numbed her senses.

Gaby sat back in her pajamas, watching her comrade think about his next move. It was unbearable.

She rose from the couch (Illya didn’t care to even look up) and donned her oversized sunglasses. Without looking, she put a record on the player. She approved of the hotel’s musical selection as the crackle of the record player faded into a song she didn’t know but liked nonetheless. It was her first taste of the west, the true west - not a smuggled, half-scratched, old record someone in West-Berlin probably didn’t want anymore.

The last time she’d danced freely like this felt like a lifetime ago. Before the Wall was put up, before her world had turned grey, before communist Germany smashed her dreams of being a dancer and instead incited a desire - no, a need, to escape at all costs.

A distant, Russian-accented complaint barely registered and she ignored it completely. He would not enter her world here.

Yet, he did.

“Please turn this off, I’m going to bed.” The irritation in his voice would’ve scared her a day before, and Gaby from yesterday would definitely have yelled at her for her current actions.

She blocked his path to the record player, her grin growing wider every time his frown deepened. As a way of making amends, she offered him a dance, which he refused.

“You can’t dance, or you don’t want to?” she asked. She guessed the former; the KGB probably didn’t leave much room in their schedule for dancing classes (or any other forms of entertainment, for that matter).

“Let’s call it both.”

Ignoring his protests, Gaby grabbed his hands and tried to get him to sway. She, however, forgot he was over a foot taller and a lot heavier. She only got his hands to follow her lead from left to right.

Some progress was made, at least, because he didn’t pull his hands back.

She clapped his hands together a few times, and when he still didn’t budge, Gaby decided to try something else.

Another emotion she could check off her list: surprise. Illya’s eyes widened as his own hand, still held firmly by her, hit his own face. Surprise turned into distrust and anger, but she only shushed him and whispered empty apologizes that he - who would’ve thought – accepted without qualms.

They fell back into their awkward little sway, this time with his feet moving along. She guessed she slapped something loose, and wondered if it was worth the risk of trying again.

It was.

This time, Gaby wasn’t met with an annoyed, but quickly forgiving look. He took a step back, betrayal across his features. He threw threats they both knew were empty, but didn’t aggravate Gaby any less.

He still thought he had control over her. His reminder that she wasn’t in her own chop shop anymore attested to that. He was right – right now, she wasn’t tough little mechanic Gaby Schmidt. Here in Rome, on a mission with the two most accomplished spies in the world, recruited by MI6, stood Gaby Teller.

Her surname might’ve changed, but her temper was still the same.

“So you don’t want to dance, but you do want to wrestle?” She challenged him. She removed her sunglasses from her face, her eyes quickly adjusting to the light.

“I did not say that-“ his protest doesn’t reach her as she already barreled into him, using her momentum to throw him off his feet and on the floor.

She cursed to herself, feeling the alcohol set in and slow her movements. She cursed at him, not being able to land a punch but also noticing he’s not making any moves himself. He was taking it like he was her personal punching bag, letting her throw him around and wrecking most of the expensive furniture in the suite in the meantime.

The scuffle ended in Gaby pinning Illya down. He must’ve felt her growing tired, too, and wanted to end the pointless fight with the drunk woman he barely knew at all.

She was out of breath, but wouldn’t be able to recall if it was because of the fight or because of the sight.

Somewhere, she was grateful for the darkness encroaching her view, because she couldn’t say what would’ve happened if she hadn’t fallen asleep right then and there – not if the heat spreading throughout her body and the acute awareness of hands on her waist were anything to go by.


	5. Waking

The first thought that entered her mind when she woke up was: _this isn’t my room. This isn’t East-Berlin._

Seconds later, she remembered the situation she found herself in, and her heart rate steadied. The next question, however, would be: _how did I end up in my bed?_

She looked to her left to find the answer, only to face an empty, neatly-made bed. The alarm clock on the nightstand next to the other bed told Gaby it was already 12:30 in the afternoon. It didn’t faze her – she’d slept through entire days before.

Her next discovery was the aspirin and glass of water on her nightstand. She took the former and emptied the latter in one breath. She silently thanked her absent partner. Speaking of which – it seemed like he’d thought of everything to accommodate her.

She read the note left on her nightstand. It was short and to the point, written in blocky, easily readable letters, though she could still spot the distinct Slavic slant to them.

_We are expected at the Vinciguerra’s at 2PM, please be ready in front of the hotel at 1PM. I trust you wake up on time but have set an alarm just in case._

As if on cue, an alarm clock made Gaby jump in surprise. She scrambled to turn it off and stop the aggravating noise. It really didn’t help her headache.

 _He really is prepared for anything_ , she thought to herself. _Admirable._

She expected herself to take about an hour to prepare, that time including fetching breakfast somewhere in the hotel and picking out an outfit her partners wouldn’t completely ridicule. But, as she could have expected, Illya had once again taken care of it. Room service had brought her breakfast some time ago (it was cold by the time Gaby was awake, but still edible – she’d go to get some fresh coffee herself) and her clothes were neatly laid out over a chair. She almost found herself relaxing.

Before entering the bathroom, she put on a record. She had enough time anyway.

This time, she did recognize the tunes; the warm voice of Nina Simone filled the suite. She remembered her smuggled records from East-Berlin. She’d paid a small fortune for every single one of them, and was sure she would get caught when walking with a new one in her bag, even though it was completely disguised as an approved Soviet record. She was afraid they’d be able to tell, either from the record or from her nervousness. They never did - she was never even stopped by any Stasi officers.

Gaby hummed along to the song quietly: she recognized it as I Put A Spell On You. She’d bought the album of the same name from her colleague with a few contacts left in the West. She’d spent two days contemplating whether to spend her savings on it or not. She bought it but never dared to play the record more than once in the end. She hadn’t known Nina Simone could sing quietly one second and very loudly the next. She was always afraid her neighbors would hear her records playing so she kept the volume as quiet as possible. Sadly, Miss Simone’s music didn’t do quiet very well.

Now, on a sunny morning in Rome, she turned the volume up as loud as she could.

In the car to the Vinciguerra race tracks, Gaby is grateful for her big sunglasses and hat for obscuring most of her face. She’s not ashamed of her hungover appearance, but she is a bit embarrassed of their wrestling match from yesterday.

Good on Illya for making light of it first chance he got, she told herself, stealing a glance from behind her sunglasses.

The car was the only place he couldn’t sit up straight. If perfect posture belonged to the training procedure of the KGB as well, she didn’t know, but it seemed par for the course, seeing as Illya Kuryakin was their prodigy. She was honestly surprised he didn’t breathe as much KGB as she’d expected him to. Though quiet, he turned out to be a decent guy so far.

Averting her eyes to the rapidly changing view of the Roman city, she tuned out again and absentmindedly hummed the song from earlier today.

“I know this song,” Illya spoke up suddenly, causing her to flinch a bit. She hoped he didn’t notice.

“You do?” she asked as she removed her sunglasses to look at him properly.

The corners of his mouth tugged a bit and Gaby was almost afraid it’d turn into a smile.

“Nina Simone, is it not?” Though not quite smiling, he did seem awfully pleased with himself for possessing some knowledge of the west he was sure she didn’t expect him to possess.

“Listening to western music, isn’t there a penalty on that?” she joked, pushing back the memory of an afraid Gaby crossing the East-Berlin streets in possession of a western record.

He frowned a bit, but his mood didn’t seem spoiled. “I lived in America for short while. For mission. She is very popular there.”

“Do you like her music?” Gaby asked, genuinely curious of the answer and – for now – skipping the part of Illya living in America of all places.

Again, he seemed taken aback by her sincerity. “Of all western music, she is hardly worst artist. Besides, she seems like strong woman.”

Gaby examined him for a second. He seemed sure of his answer and didn’t shy away from admitting to liking some aspects of western culture like she’d expect him to. She also realized this was the second time today he’d mentioned strong women. She didn’t see it as a sign, but it stood out to her nonetheless.

She turned to face the scenery out the window again. “I suppose she does,” she mumbled, more to herself than to Illya, who went back to his silent self.

Two seconds later, Gaby whipped her head back to his direction and fired her question at him. “Why did you live in America? Did you hate it? How long did you even stay there?”

“Don’t pry, Teller,” he warned her.

“It’s Gaby,” she corrected him.

“Chop Shop Girl,” he corrected her in his turn, and she swore she saw the faintest of smiles on his face, even if it was just for a moment.


	6. Acting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a late update, sorry about that. School got in the way.

In Illya’s defense, her uncle was being a real asshole. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t worried about where he was and (God forbid) who would be on the receiving end of his anger.

But he was a grown man, she figured, and she wasn’t about to chase him like a mother after a misbehaving toddler.

“ _Es tut mir Leid_ , Gaby,” her uncle apologized rather unconvincingly.

She found a perfect in. “There’s a way you could make it up to me,” she said in English, feigning innocence.

“Does this have to do with your father?” he continued in German, seeing right through her disguise. Or he thought so, at least. She let him.

“I haven’t seen him in ages,” she pleaded, finally switching to her mother tongue. After two days of speaking mostly English, the syllables felt harsh in her throat, even though she’d always insist English was the harsher language of the two.

“I know, I know, my dear. Let’s discuss this in peace later. Tell me a bit about your fiancé, rather?” His eyebrows raised above his sunglasses and creased his splotchy forehead.

“You’ve just met him,” she said. She’d indulge him for now.

“Oh, please. I don’t believe your little story at all. Tell me – how does a good Teller girl get attached to such a…” he trailed off, making vague gestures in the direction Illya took off in. Gaby didn’t even have to fake the offense she took to it.

“Blood is not everything, uncle. I don’t recall my bloodline having anything to do with the family I was put in. Unlike you, I never enjoyed the life of an aristocrat. I was raised as a simple, down-to-earth mechanic, and I know better than to choose who I want to spend my life with based on bloodlines and family history.” She tried her best to sound calm and collected, but at the same time felt her little rant getting away from her.

Rudi shook his head softly as they strolled along the race track, not looking at her or anything in particular. He seemed to think about her statement. Even if her engagement was just a cover and she would say goodbye to Illya just days from now, she could still make a point to her uncle. She’d always hated the pride he had for his family, for his nation. Gaby never understood it - not as a young child, not now. How could one possibly be so proud of a nation that murdered millions and destroyed the lives of countless more? How could one be proud of a family that aided this senseless killing? Just seeing her uncle’s chest puff out and seeing him stand to his full height whenever _family_ was mentioned made her blood boil.

“Besides, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, uncle. Surely you know this, being so well-read?” she took a dig at his tendency to boast his intelligence and how many books he had in his home. Two rooms full, she was told. Every single page filled with nationalist propaganda, Gaby was sure of it.

Her uncle let out a hearty laugh, which still sounded horribly sarcastic to her. “I know this because I know you. Look at you, so beautiful in your summer dress and lovely hat. Who could ever guess you’d rather spend your time under a car, working on engines instead of a new dish in the kitchen?”

It wasn’t a dig, really. Rudi had always favored traditional households, but he’d never talked bad about his niece’s job as a mechanic. He was probably just glad someone provided her food and a roof above her head so he didn’t have to.

Gaby forced a smile and steered the conversation back to her father.

“Uncle, don’t you think my father would give anything to see how happy I am now?”

Rudi didn’t reply at first, and she was afraid he wasn’t going to let anything go. But then he opened his thin, mouse-like mouth. “I am sure he would. Look, Gaby, my dear, I haven’t talked to your father in a long time. I’m not sure I can come in contact with him.”

_Liar._

“Oh,” Gaby pouted, putting on her best downcast expression. It seemed she wasn’t so bad of an actress after all.

He yielded at last. “Actually, last I heard of him he was in the Rome area. I recall him even working for the Vinciguerras – but don’t get your hopes up, Gaby. Remember, your father is a fugitive. He can’t just show up anywhere. Arranging a meeting would put him at risk.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Victoria Vinciguerra herself. Gaby introduced herself politely and made a little small talk before that, too, was interrupted by the other Vinciguerra on the circuit. Alexander Vinciguerra eased his racecar into the pit-stop they were currently standing in, yelling Italian at a mechanic who Gaby could only think of as incredibly unfortunate to have to work with such a man.

When they switched over to English, and their talk became clearer to Gaby, she decided to take initiative. No car with bad maintenance would leave without her care.

When the mechanic, clearly frustrated, offered if she wanted to fix the vehicle, she was more than happy to do so, and pretended not to notice Alexander Vinciguerra trying to look up her skirt as she took a closer look at the car.

Twenty minutes and a fixed car later, she tried not to roll her eyes at the obvious and clichéd flirting tactics Alexander was pulling on her – with his wife no further than a hundred meters away, no less.

“You can see the future?” she asked after he made another ridiculous offer.

“I can see us having lunch tomorrow. Alone.”

She reminded herself to thank Illya later for stepping in at that exact moment, because she wasn’t sure if she could manage to keep from laughing at the married man desperately trying to bed a (not actually) soon-to-be married woman.

Illya pulled her away in such a hurry she couldn’t even locate Solo anywhere in the party before getting a cab to the hotel.

“Where were you?” she asked when he seemed to be somewhat responsive again.

“Bathroom, like I told you.”

“Did you have an episode?”

“Is none of your business.”

Gaby barked out a laugh. “It is actually _all_ of my business since, if you managed to draw any suspicion from my uncle, none of us will get to complete the mission.”

Illya turned his head to look at her. His steeled expression and widened eyes startled her, but she managed not to show it. “I am fine. Nothing happened. I will complete mission no matter what, so stop doubting me, Gaby.”

He spat out her name like a curse and she, surprisingly, found herself more angry than scared. He was keeping things from her. Not only would he compromise the mission, it didn’t sit well with her that he didn’t trust her with certain things. Maybe she was getting a bit too much into her role as fiancée. She sometimes forgot she wouldn’t have to see the man ever again after everything was over and dealt with.

“I will if you learn to trust me,” she sneered in turn. As if to put an end to the conversation, he stubbornly crossed his arms and focused back on the window to his side.

The rest of the car ride was spent in hostile silence; a Cold War of their own.

 


	7. Accusing

“Going out? Did you get sick of playing chess against yourself?” Gaby lowered the book she was trying to read (unsuccessfully, she was still stuck at page eight), shooting him a curious but wholly unimpressed look. Her eyebrows were raised so far they were almost obscured by her bangs.

“Yes, and no. Since Cowboy has decided to “sleep on” problem of the Vinciguerra’s enriching the uranium, I will go instead.”

She rolled her eyes, not the first time today. When they’d gotten back to the hotel, Illya was still in a bad mood and he’d retreated to the bathroom, of which he’d made his own little darkroom to develop the pictures he’d apparently taken during their short visit at the racetracks. This is when he’d informed Solo of the Vinciguerra’s having enriched the uranium, to which the American had replied rather mildly, saying he’d “go sleep on it”.

The more unusual part of the conversation was when Napoleon asked how Gaby had come in contact with Alexander Vinciguerra. Before she could even answer, Illya intervened with a comment that her new boyfriend was a Nazi, and that, he repeated twice, it was _not_ happening.

Honestly, Gaby was torn between laughing at him and getting angry with him. She’d settled for the latter, telling him he had no right to tell her what she could and couldn’t do. The quite pointless argument had continued even after Solo had left their hotel room.

“You still don’t trust me! I can get intel from him, even if he is a Nazi.”

“It is not about me not trusting you,” he’d assured her, though his finger pointing down at her only riled her up more.

“Then what? You were the one that said the mission goes before anything.”

“You are twisting my words.” His eyes narrowed as Gaby kept pushing the subject. She watched his posture, defensive and irritated before, straighten and his face go blank. To Gaby, it looked like every door and gate had just closed up on her as he went from angry to cold and impersonal. After trying to get her annoyingly boring and correct partner to open up, this felt like she just ended up at square one. Her annoyance slowly turned into defeat. She’d take an angry – jealous, even – Illya over a distant one.

Jealous. That must be it.

“ _You_ are not answering my question. Why are you being so stubborn? Are you jealous, perhaps?” She couldn’t resist a grin as she saw him frown and his nostrils flare at the word.

“I am not jealous. I am trying not to get you killed, and if your stubbornness over the past two days is anything to go by, then I am in for long week.”

“If you say so,” she said, ending the discussion. Whether she thought Illya was jealous or not wasn’t important, really. She was still trying to rattle him, get something out of him. She’d just escaped the prison that was East-Berlin, she wouldn’t accept being cooped up with the embodiment of the communist regime without some show of rebellion. It seemed to be working; his cold exterior melted somewhat. Instead, he looked annoyed again, and even - dare she say it - embarrassed. Whatever it was, it was enough for now, and Gaby retreated to the bedroom to pick up one of the books the hotel had provided her.

Gaby thought about protesting, saying she wanted to come with on the mission, but only shrugged. “Come home safe,” she said, not even contemplating the word _home_. A dangerous word that neither of them had any memories of. A foreign concept that they would most likely never have or experience.

Still, it had rolled off her tongue so easily.

“I will,” Illya replied after a beat of stunned silence she’d probably not even noticed. The door clicked shut behind him.


	8. Worrying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for the nearly 2-month hiatus... I'm sorry, that's all I can say!

Gaby was on page seventy-four of her book when the door swung open. Illya immediately reached under his bed, asking where his suitcase was by way of explanation.

She understood the situation as soon as she heard Solo and Victoria’s voices come through the receiver of Illya’s bugging device (seems like Solo hadn’t found all of his bugs, after all), and sat back on her bed, relieved nothing bad had actually happened.

It was easy to notice if something was off about Illya, because the man was so tall he had a hard time not standing out. This time, it was his balance that was off, paired with his unusually mussed hair and pale face. He was naturally pale, she knew, but this looked different, unhealthy.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I am fine. Why do you ask?” The couch creaked against the weight of him leaning on it, trying to hide his fatigue.

“You don’t look fine,” she continued, figuring inquiring him about the mission would come later. There was clearly something wrong, and he was obviously hiding it. Somehow, seeing this monolith of a man not being able to stand on his own two feet or walking around without taking a breath worried her. He looked like an entirely different person.

He was ready to protest, but a cough erupted from his throat that sounded quite painful to Gaby, and he stormed off to the bathroom. As soon as the door closed, she could hear him retching, and it made her own stomach twist.

She got up from her bed again and carefully opened the bathroom door. He was standing again, but barely. Gaby supported him (and almost toppled over herself) and set him down on the edge of the tub.

“I’m going to get you a glass of water, and you’re going to tell me what the hell happened.” She stormed off to find a glass. She didn’t need an explanation – she recognized the way he coughed, his breath was lagging and his paleness. She thought back to little Ivonne, her best friend in Berlin before everything was taken away from her. Ivonne had clumsily made her way from the kiddy pool to the actual swimming pool and had to be rescued by her father. Gaby would never forget the way the little girl had coughed, spitting out water for what seemed to be ages, or had barely responded at all after she’d been extracted out of the deep water. But most of all, she’d never forget the girl’s face, usually so full of life and joy, look so pale and terrified. Even a healthy blush was nowhere to be seen on her cheeks.

Pushing the images out of her mind, Gaby re-entered the bathroom to find Illya still on the edge of the tub, not moving an inch.

She passed the glass of water to him, but he barely took two sips before putting it down.

“We were cornered by henchmen of Vinciguerra,” he started, looking vaguely guilty but mostly exhausted. “I tried to get us away on boat, but it exploded. Cowboy dragged me out of the water, we had to leave fast.”

“Solo dragged you out, so you almost drowned?” Gaby deduced, looking more like a scolding mother with her arms crossed and eyebrow raised.

“I would have been fine if-“

“Bullshit!” she interrupted him. “You almost died if it weren’t for Solo. What were we supposed to do, then? Continue the mission like nothing happened? Would I just go to my uncle and tell him my fiancé was killed by Vinciguerra’s men?”

She awaited his response, but he only looked at the bathroom floor in shame.

“Why don’t you allow other people to worry about you? Why don’t you trust anybody but yourself?” Her anger dissipated, turning into worry. She felt her eyes glaze over and her throat constrict. How pathetic, she told herself.

Garnering no response, Gaby chose action over words, passing Illya to turn the handle on the tub.

“Though I think water is the last thing you want to see right now, you should take a bath. Contrary to what the KGB might have told you, hypothermia is actually not good for you.” She hoped her little jab at his agency would get her a heated response.

“Thank you,” was all she got. She nodded with the promise to find him dry clothes. He didn’t even protest to the idea of her going through his suitcase. She figured he must’ve been really rattled.

She closed the bathroom door and retrieved his suitcase from under his bed, not being able to shake the pit in her stomach.

Making sure she didn’t encounter anything personal in his suitcase (she was glad he was at least opening up somewhat, she didn’t want to ruin it now by having him think she was snooping around), she gathered something that resembled an old pajama. It wouldn’t have surprised Gaby if this was still from his days in training.

Gaby decided to wait instead of head to bed. She wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. She put the kettle on the stove and started looking for tea. She never was much of a tea drinker, but coffee would only keep her awake for longer.

She tried to think of the last time she actually took care of someone. Not counting getting drunk friends home back in Berlin, the last time would probably have been when her adoptive father was still alive. A lifetime ago, when she was still a mechanic with the only chance of freedom being the Wall breaking down. Now she’d conquered the wall, was currently residing in a high-end hotel in the heart of Rome with an American and a Russian as partners. If someone had told her this would happen two years ago, she would laugh at them and tell them to go bother someone else.

In the background, her head partly back to present time, she heard the water from the shower stop. She grabbed the pajamas – probably about five to ten sizes too big for her – and scurried to the bathroom door, knocking on it softly and informing Illya that she’d leave dry clothes at the door. She didn’t expect an answer and headed right back to the kitchen, where the kettle had already started whistling. Minutes later, with two mugs filled with tea, Gaby entered the living room. Illya already sat on the couch and she was honestly impressed with his speed, barely three minutes had passed in between Gaby leaving dry clothes at the door and her getting tea.

Maybe the experience of near-drowning knocked something loose, or he was officially off-duty after climbing into his pajamas, but Illya’s perfect posture was gone and he sat with legs folded and back slightly hunched. He accepted the warm mug from Gaby with a barely audible “thank you” and, if not for his intimidating stature, he would have looked almost child-like. His hair was no longer groomed impeccably and his cold and carefully blank expression was replaced by a somewhat tired one.

Gaby sat down next to him and grabbed for the alcoholic amber liquid on the table before pouring a generous amount into her own mug. She didn’t really care to know the brand.

“Maybe that is not good idea,” he warned her, his tone anything but threatening.

“Neither is almost drowning, but look where we are.”

“Fair point.”

She didn’t know if she wanted him to apologize. He had no reason to, his (and possibly Solo’s) life had been the only one in danger. She was being selfish for no reason and she knew it, and it was only making her more angry with herself and him and the entire world.

The alcohol didn’t help either.

“What was I supposed to do if you two hadn’t come back?” Gaby stared into her tea, the steam bringing tears to her eyes. “Just cancel the whole mission, go back to Berlin? Act as if I haven’t escaped over the wall? As if I’m not a fugitive? As if I’m okay with the only chance of seeing my father just being taken away from me?”

“I think-“

“You didn’t think!” Gaby let go of her mug out of fear her grip would break it. She was heating up from the inside, anger for no good reason blinding her. She stood up so Illya would have to be the one looking up at her. He looked exhausted and riddled with guilt, but it didn’t stop her. “You just went and almost got yourself killed! Do you think we’d be happy hauling your dead body from a fucking pond in enemy territory? You’d better thank the gods Solo went and saved your ass. It’s a damn miracle you’re still alive, you stubborn asshole. You’re in a team now, and you’re dependent on other people. Other people depend on you.” She paused to catch her breath, and lowered her voice a bit. “Do you know how worried I was when you almost collapsed here?”

Gaby was sure neither of them dared breathe for a few seconds. There was no telling what he’d do – she’d never insulted him like that, and what if he’d lose himself in his rage, like he almost did at the night of the robbery? She wouldn’t stand a chance.

Instead, he slowly moved his hand towards hers, giving her enough time to pull away if she wanted to. Her hand practically disappeared in his, and she was somewhat glad to notice he wasn’t as cold as he was half an hour ago.

“You are right, I did not think things through. I did not think you would worry over me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I thought you hated me. I understand, though – I am the last person you want to spend time with after escaping East-Berlin.” For a split-second, he flashed a sad smile. Gaby would’ve missed it if she wasn’t so focused on him.

“I think… I think I hated the idea of you.” She sat back on the couch, closer to him this time. “I was terrified during my escape. Since I was small I heard stories about what the Russians do to people who try to leave. I thought you were here to try and stop me from leaving the East forever. I saw the Stasi, the Russian soldiers, every figure I learned to fear. I didn’t think to stop and see the person until this morning.” They were harsh words, she was aware, but she didn’t know how to tell him otherwise. She’d always been a very direct person. “You really grew on me, you know? In your own, sarcastic, broody way, I suppose.”

He scoffed, but she could tell he wasn’t really offended. It got a genuine laugh out of her.

“Is that why you were not asleep yet? Because you were worried?”

“Well, I also have trouble sleeping in general. But I assume you read my file, so you know that already.” She was a fool to think he wasn’t briefed before the mission, and to think the KGB wouldn’t know basically everything about her. Still, she furiously hoped her MI6-membership wasn’t in her file. Though, if it was, she probably wouldn’t even be alive now, much less in Rome.

“I prefer you telling me yourself. If I would know everything without you telling me, I would feel like… Creep.”

Gaby was genuinely curious if he’d hit his head on the way back to the hotel. “I guess that’s reasonable,” she laughed.

The clock would hit four before both agents were through most of their stories and fell asleep.


	9. Staring

Did the man ever sleep? She hadn’t seen him asleep or even in his bed once the entire mission. Even last night she ended up being the first to pass out and she figured he must have carried her to bed again.

Gaby awoke peacefully, with the birds chirping just outside the hotel window. It was only eleven AM, and even though she nearly pulled an all-nighter, she didn’t feel as exhausted as she usually did after a night of drinking. Maybe because she had a drinking partner this time (even though Illya stuck to his tea, the absolute bore). Except for the usual headache she felt fairly refreshed.

Turning around, she spots Illya combing his wet hair in front of the mirror. She watched him, fascinated – he furrowed his brow as he concentrated, like he was cracking a safe, or contemplating a move in a chess game. She recalled a story he’d shared the night before.

 

_Gaby paid close attention when he told his story. He didn’t look her in the eye, maybe because it was embarrassing, or because he wasn’t used to sharing pieces of his past. She noticed such contrast between the Illya she’d met a few days before, and the one in front of her. Never had she thought she’d be listening to him telling stories about his past – though she noticed he was careful about mentioning his parents in any way. She decided not to pry but just listen and sip her spiked tea instead._

_“When I was around age of sixteen, I did not like the situation in Russia. I was rebel teen before joining KGB. I got my first girlfriend, a stilyaga – do you know what that means?” Gaby shook her head. “It is… someone from Russia who likes American culture and clothing. Stilyagi are often careful about it in public, but there are parties in abandoned warehouses during the night. They wear jeans and listen to American music, like Elvis Presley. She was one of those people, and she tried to get me into it too. I refused to dress like an American, but she was stubborn. Much like you. She styled my hair like American.” He didn’t even try to hide his smile as he told the story. “I looked like bad mix between Beatle and Elvis Presley.”_

_Gaby struggled to picture how that must’ve looked, but she didn’t doubt it was bad. She compared the stilyagi to some of her friends when she was a teenager. They went to secret parties as well, dressing up like Americans and party until dawn. She’d attended some of the parties – it had been a lot of fun. She could imagine a true patriot like Illya not wanting to go to such things, though. The fact that he’d had a girlfriend who liked American things was already baffling enough._

_She wondered how many exes Illya had. He didn’t seem like the type to sleep around like Napoleon. In fact, he didn’t seem like a romantic at all._

_“What was she like? How did you two end up?” she inquired, suddenly curious about Illya’s previous relationships. She wanted to know, partly because she couldn’t imagine him in a relationship at all, and partly because she wondered what his type was._

_“Her name was Maria. She was stubborn, like I said. She was from poor family but she would make do with what she had. She was very tall, almost as tall as me. Other people asked me: “Why do you like this scary woman?” But I never thought she was scary. But then also, people think I am scary, so maybe that makes sense.” He was rambling now._

_“You’re not that scary,” Gaby objected. She wasn’t making a very convincing case, what with her running from him just days ago. “You’re a bit stoic though.”_

_He huffed before continuing. “Anyway, she did not like my temper. She said I was – am dangerous. I never hurt her, but I cannot blame her for thinking this.”_

_“Then she didn’t try getting to know you. Plus, look at you now; you’re in a hotel in Rome with a job as an architect and a fiancée,” Gaby joked. “I’d say she’s missing out.”_

_She’d never imagined Illya genuinely smiling in general, much less at her. She’d swear her ears were lying to her, but he was laughing._

 

After a minute or so, Illya finally noticed her staring. Looking away now would be useless, she figured, so she held his gaze, challenging him.

“Good morning,” he simply said, trying to hide the fact that he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself now that he caught her staring. “How is the view?”

“No complaints here,” she countered, still not relenting. Grumbling something she couldn’t understand, he turned away and grabbed his jacket. As if on cue, someone knocked on the door and Illya went to answer it.

Gaby couldn’t see who was at the door, but she could hazard a guess. The smooth voice of a certain American reached her ears. Something about a device he needed help with checking.

“Gaby,” Illya called out to her, “Cowboy is-“

“Not welcome,” she groaned. The last thing she needed right now was Solo’s sharp wit. The tension between her and Illya had basically melted away overnight, and it didn’t take a superspy to pick up on that.

“Rough night?” Solo asked, raising his voice so she could hear him.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she answered as she threw the covers off of her and hopped off the bed.

“Touché,” he admitted, entering their room anyway. He threw a small device at her, attached to a silk band. “Tracking device. Put that on. See you in my suite in ten.”

“Thirty,” she protested.

“Fifteen,” Illya said, compromising. He glared at Napoleon after the American gave him a curious look, and they both left the suite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the Wiki page: Stilyagi (lit. "stylish", "style hunter") was a derogatory appellation for members of a youth counterculture from the late 1940s until the early 1960s in the Soviet Union. Stilyagi were primarily distinguished by their snappy or fashionable clothing (considered contrary to the communist realities of the time), preferably of foreign label, acquired from fartsovshchiks, and their fascination with modern Western music and fashions.
> 
> Full page: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stilyagi
> 
>  
> 
> I believe I already wrote about this, but it's still my headcanon and I love it so much


	10. Turning

The walk from Gaby’s suite to Solo’s was quite possibly the longest one ever in Gaby’s mind. Her garter was uncomfortable and she’d gotten herself worked up about having to betray her two partners. To her own surprise, the result of them resenting her afterwards scared her more than the possibility of them finding out too early about her plan and ruining it. On top of that, if everything went well, she would be meeting her father for the first time in almost twenty years, and she wasn’t sure how she would react. And to top it all off, as of last night she was entirely unsure of how to feel about the man that she’d been terrified of days earlier.

The two men hadn’t heard her coming because they both abruptly halted their conversation. They seemed to look a bit nervous too, one more than the other. She immediately put up her guard; had they found out about Waverly? Was the mission a bust?

“Your tracker doesn’t seem to be sending a signal,” Solo stated, poking at the wiring of the box in front of him a bit. Gaby let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and decided to bluff. With two _clacks_  of her low heels, she stood on the coffee table and roughly pulled up the right side of her skirt, revealing the garter.

“Would you like to check it?” _Please don’t call on my bluff._

She didn’t pick up the exact exchange between the two - her heart had been in her throat the entire time so she wasn’t really capable of listening very well – but Solo proclaimed he’d be on the balcony, and with a grin on his face and a glass of whiskey in his hand, he sauntered out.

Turning her head, she found two eyes staring right back at her. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Illya this panicked before. This was something the KGB hadn’t prepared him for, and he didn’t know how to tackle a situation like that. Looking at him revealed how much of an open book he actually was – to Gaby, at least. His stoicism had melted away completely, and a boyish confusion had taken its place.

Apparently deciding he would just have to get it over with, Illya took a step forward and started rubbing his hands. She was just about to ask what he was doing, when two positively freezing hands carefully touched her thigh.

“They’re still cold,” she muttered. He apologized. She wasn’t sure why.

How long does it take to turn on a tracker? She regretted not making sure it was turned on in the first place.

“What are you doing down there?” she asked.

“Trying not to get lost.” It was a good summary of the last few days, Gaby thought. Nonetheless, the insecurity in his voice made her heart skip a beat.

She heard a _click_ , and the garter was apparently on.

“You’re trembling,” he continued, not letting her off just yet.

“That’s because I’m scared,” she replied a bit breathlessly. It wasn’t a complete lie, she actually was afraid. But most of the adrenaline going through her body right now wasn’t because of fear. She wasn’t sure why she was acting like this, or rather she didn’t want to admit it to herself. She turned her head and peered into those eyes again – impossibly blue and worried for her. She had to admit it now, being confronted with him like this. It had only taken her three days to make possibly the stupidest decision in her life and fall head over heels for a Russian spy.

“It’s going to be okay,” he assured her. She was aware of the spell she cast on him because he hadn’t moved a muscle since she’d locked eyes with him again. It made her feel powerful, but also vulnerable. It had taken a table for Gaby to stand on and a head-on confrontation to turn him into this, not to mention him nearly drowning a day before.

“How do you know?”

“I’ll- I’ll be close by.” Even though he stumbled over his words, she knew he meant it. She knew there was no way back as she caught his eyes flicking to her lips and they both leaned in.

She wasn’t sure whether to thank the Gods or to curse them as Solo re-entered the room. “All turned on now?”


	11. Teaming up

She had hoped to be leaving Rome with her father. In truth, she should be happy to leave with her life, but the sadness lingers. She must’ve taken three scalding hot baths since their return to their hotel this morning, but she couldn’t shake the feeling. Both Illya and Solo had tried their best to cheer her up, but she could see they were tired from the mission as well. How could she blame them? They didn’t even have to come back for her, seeing as she had betrayed them right in front of their faces.

Though she tried to not look as hopeless as she felt, the mirror wasn’t cooperating. Her clothing was impeccable, of course – she expected no less of her partners, even after such a tumultuous day. The only thing ruining the look were her scratches. They still hurt at the touch, but she isn’t complaining. Illya and Solo had taken the brunt of the beating. Hell, Illya had thrown a motorcycle at Alexander Vinciguerra after crashing it. It didn’t impress her much at the time as she was only half conscious, but now, back in the hotel room, she remembered how scary he could be. Surprisingly, her fear had dissipated in just a few short days, and at the moment she was just glad he was okay.

Waverly was waiting for her in his own suite, and she had already said goodbye to Illya, though in a somewhat disappointing manner. She could beat herself up now; she wasn’t going to see this man ever again, and she had left with only unfinished kisses as memories and a bugged ring as a souvenir. Not that she was planning to get rid of the ring. She hoped Waverly wouldn’t want her to.

Suite 105. She knocked and entered.

“Please, have a seat,” Waverly pointed to the seat opposite to him at the table in his hotel suite. The room was decorated similarly to her own, with the exception of only one single bed in this one. Files were spread all over the glass table, and it seemed like Waverly had been pouring over them before Gaby had entered.

“I’ll have a full report ready by tomorrow-“ Gaby started, but she was cut off.

“Miss Teller, something has arisen. Something rather urgent. And since we can’t – _I can’t_ – simply put you back behind that wall, let’s try and make something of this, shall we?”

Though she was relieved by hearing Waverly say she won’t be returning to the East, she wasn’t quite sure what he was talking about.

“I’ve decided to make a little team of you three. I’ve hashed out the details with Russia and the US overnight, don’t you worry about that. I saw you were fond of the two gentlemen earlier, and I’m glad, since I hope we’ll all be working together for a long time.”

Gaby wasn’t sure what to do with this information. Waverly had always been extremely talented in making promises she wasn’t sure were even possible one could make, much less hold up to. But he had held up to his previous promise of getting her over the wall, and so she decided to trust him again. She had to, because the alternative was back to a life of hammers and sickles at every corner – though, in a way, her life now would be the same, only taller and blonder. The thought of it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

“Shall we notify the boys?” Waverly asked, barely awaiting her response. He could see the news hadn’t completely landed Gaby nodded, and stood up to follow her new boss. She donned her bug-eyed sunglasses before heading out to the balcony.

Hearing Waverly repeat the news to her new partners made her realize it was actually real. They seemed to be just as befuddled as she was, which pleased her. Then again, when had been the last time both of them had worked in a team long-term? The last time they had this much freedom? Neither the KGB or the CIA seemed to be too fond of their agents, and Gaby was sure the moment they would go out of service they would be worth more dead than alive. It saddened her, but she supposed it was the nature of the job, however terrifying that was.

Waverly waved over Solo to discuss the details first, and so she was left with Illya on a sunny balcony in Rome. He had just finished his glass of whisky. She could use a glass or two herself. She took a seat at the little table beside him, and he followed suit.

“I suppose we won’t be saying goodbye after all,” she started, thankful for the oversized glasses hiding most of her facial expressions. Her mood had shifted and she was positively giddy, but she wasn’t about to show it.

“I suppose not,” he replied, staring at the pile of ashes that, Gaby would learn later, would symbolize a small Détente in the Cold War between Solo and Illya. “I’m glad.”

“What an odd team we make,” she sighed, thinking back to how the three of them handled their previous mission.

“I’ve never been in a team before,” Illya confessed. “Not for longer than one mission, at least. I don’t do well in teams.”

“I’d say you did just fine the past couple of days.”

“You think so?” The question was entirely sincere, it caught Gaby off guard.

“I do,” she insisted.

Instead of arguing, he smiled. Not the first time in a few days, she felt light-headed. This team would be the end of her, she was sure of it.

“That makes one of us,” he said, trailing off somewhat.

“You’ll have to prove yourself in Istanbul then, it seems.”

A genuine laugh escaped him, however short. “I look forward to it.”

Three hours later, she woke up from her nap in the private plane with a jacket draped over her that looked about six sizes too big for her, and her legs in the lap of a Russian without a jacket, pointedly looking out the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end! I've had an Istanbul fic stored somewhere in a dusty corner of my laptop since about September though, so it's not REALLY the end. Lord knows when I've learned my lesson and stop doing these long-ass fics I'm terrible at keeping updated.
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you liked it!!


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